


Said Between Your Heart And Mine

by eyeus



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-04
Updated: 2012-05-04
Packaged: 2017-11-04 20:12:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/397759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyeus/pseuds/eyeus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU where Sherlock doesn’t exist. Instead, John buys a lovely statue in a gallery that looks like Sherlock, and dreams of his constant companion coming to life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Said Between Your Heart And Mine

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [fenm](http://fenm.livejournal.com/)'s Make Me A Monday prompt [here](http://sherlockbbc.livejournal.com/4329783.html?thread=35609655#t35609655). Title is from Keith Whitley’s “When You Say Nothing At All”.

**

 

“You’ve got to liven up your room a little, John.” Harry gestures at the drab walls of the bedsit, which are yellowed with age—a fact accentuated by the weak, midday sunlight filtering in through the windows. “Maybe hang an art piece or two. It’ll freshen the place right up.”

John doubts a colourful canvas will inject life into the place, much less liven up his bleak existence since his return from Afghanistan, but his leg and shoulder are aching, and he’s in the mood for easy acquiescence. Besides, Harry’s just given him a phone; a hand-me-down, still useful for its calculator and clock, if not for keeping in touch. 

“What would you suggest?” John asks wearily, hoping that wherever Harry wants to drag him this time, it’s not too far to hobble to with his cane. 

“I know just the place,” says Harry, her familiar smirk firmly in place.

 

**

 

The Hickman Gallery is the last place John expects to arrive at, and as he stands on the slate grey flooring, surrounded by walls of sepulchre white, he feels severely out of place. He’d thought a yard sale would be the extent of Harry’s art expertise, not this posh outfit.

As if reading his thoughts, Harry arches an eyebrow. “We’re here to get ideas, not to buy.”

John lets out a sigh of relief, before noticing a statue situated in the far corner of the gallery. It is shunned, its visage drawing only cursory attention before visitors gravitate toward more flattering sculptures of curvaceous females. Perhaps it’s the alien slant of its eyes, or its intimidating height, but—

“Good lord,” John breathes. “Is that supposed to be a bedsheet it’s wearing?”

Harry turns to see what’s caught his attention, before huffing out an impatient breath. “It’s a _toga_ , John. Like the ones they wore in ancient Greece.”

As he draws nearer to the statue, John supposes it _could_ make a claim for Grecian heritage—it’s an Adonis with untamed curls, with a toga (bedsheet, honestly) slung casually over its left shoulder and around the waist, wrapping around a pair of shapely, narrow hips. Its right arm is cocked at a slight angle, almost in a come-hither motion, but the outflung palm denotes defiance rather than alluring invitation. As if the statue intends to maintain both distance and beauty in a cool, aloof manner. 

Suddenly, it strikes John just how isolated this statue is, backed into the corner while keeping everyone at bay. 

_You’re lonely. Just like me,_ he thinks.

John looks up into its eyes, searchingly. Where other statues stare blankly upon the gallery visitors, the detailed irises and pupils carved into this one’s eyes give it a piercing gaze, one that’s distinctly unsettling. As if it can see right through John. 

It’s minutiae like these that set it apart from all the lifeless others, twisted and torsioned into their seductive but meaningless poses.

Adjusting his leg with a fair amount of effort, John bends down to examine the bronze plaque affixed to the base of the statue. He runs his thumb over the embossed letters. “Sherlock.” _So that’s what your name is._ “By M. Holmes.”

“We haven’t got all day to look at _statues_ , John.” Harry’s voice is slipping into her telltale whine, the one indicative of her itching for a drink. Impatience getting the better of her, she flaps her hand at some colourful abstracts to the side. “They’ve got some perfectly nice modern pieces over there.” 

John tracks the motion of her hand, his gaze settling on a playful splash of paint on canvas that, if he squints, resembles a pair of mating giraffes. No, he doesn’t want _nice_ , or mating giraffes. 

He wants Sherlock. 

John casts a surreptitious glance around them, searching for a gallery employee or the artist’s agent, to see what the statue’s asking price is. Of course, it’s at this moment that the mystical sibling telepathy flares to life. 

“You’re taking the piss, right? You want to buy _this_?” Harry belts out a harsh laugh, not meant to wound, but it stings all the same. “John, your army pension won’t even cover a fraction of the cost.”

“I know, I just…” John begins helplessly, before a brunette in a low-cut black dress materializes out of the woodwork, with a Blackberry clutched tightly in hand. She must be the agent, if not the artist herself, John decides, as she approaches them.

“You have an interest in this work, then.” It’s not a question, and she doesn’t look up from her phone. 

“Er, yeah.” John sucks in a quick breath to bolster his courage. “Are you M. Holmes? I’m just wondering how much this piece is,” he says, gesturing in the statue’s direction as he ignores Harry’s obvious eye-roll. 

“I’m Holmes’ agent, Anthea.” She gives a dismissive nod. “My client rarely dabbles in sculpture, so this is the only work he’s displaying in the gallery for now. As for the price, it’s valued at a little under a million pounds, but…” She taps a few keys on her phone.

John hears the distinctive _whirr_ of several CCTVs focusing their electronic stares toward him, and he wonders if this M. Holmes has friends in high places, or in fact owns the gallery.

“He says if you can move it out of here, you may have it free of charge.”

“Sorry, what? I-I don’t think I heard correctly,” John splutters, unbelieving. Somewhere between _a million pounds_ and _free of charge_ , his thought process encountered a gaping chasm of disconnect. 

“He’s stated that his work is priceless, and because you’ve been the first to truly appreciate it, you can have it. Free of charge,” she says, with an all but disdainful sigh at having to repeat herself. 

John stands there open-mouthed, before snapping to attention. As he thanks his lucky stars for the odd whims of the creator and rushes forward to determine how to transport the statue, he barely notices the shadow that appears beside Anthea. The only discernable sign of its presence is a faint _tap_ of an umbrella point on the polished floor. 

“Interesting fellow,” the shadow notes thoughtfully. “He could be the making of Sherlock…if he doesn’t dismantle him trying to take him home, first.”

 

**

 

It’s a pain to move the statue back to the bedsit, and he certainly doesn’t get any help from Harry, who has sauntered off elsewhere to sulk, having lost interest in the whole ‘fine-art’ affair. Despite the statue being free, it still costs John a hefty amount to hire a truck that’ll drive him back, along with several movers to help him haul the dead weight into his bedsit. 

After the movers leave and the statue is properly positioned, John sits on the bed, stretching his arms out with a loud crack. Surprisingly, his leg doesn’t hurt anymore, and all that lifting and pushing seems to have done him a world of good as well. 

It’s only then that he realizes he’s left his cane in the truck. 

Briefly lamenting its loss, John rises to inspect his new acquisition from up close, reaching out a hand to gently caress the angles of its face, the curves of its body. His elbow brushes against the statue’s chest, over an exposed nipple, and John imagines that it’s pebbled from arousal. A familiar tingle stirs in his groin. 

For a statue. 

It’s been ages since his last wank, and he can’t help the fantasy that springs to mind. He wonders what might be under the sheet, if the statue were a real man ( _your name would be Sherlock, yes_ ). Imagines running his hands along the expanse of smooth, pale skin, pressing his lips to the perfectly carved mouth. John would nip at his throat, in all its pallid splendour, would slide his tongue against it to lick a wet stripe of possession against the pulse throbbing there… 

“And I’d slip my hand into your sheet and wrap it around your—” John suddenly realizes he’s been narrating his fantasy aloud, and he hazards an awkward glance into the statue’s eyes.

Where its gaze is usually sharp and vigilant, the statue now looks politely puzzled. If that’s even possible.

John rubs a hand over his eyes, wondering if it’s the exhaustion tinged with exhilaration that has him seeing him things. The statue, upon closer inspection, hasn’t changed from when he first saw it at the gallery.

Just a trick of the light, then. 

He shakes his head, his cheeks flushing with warmth. For a moment, John feels the slightest bit of embarrassment, describing his fantasies to an inanimate object, and guilt, that his thoughts run toward the carnal. Then again, it isn’t as if Sherlock can _hear_ him. Unless—

The thought is quashed instantly, and John decides to ready himself for bed instead. Just before turning in for the night and switching off the light, he murmurs a sleepy, “Good night, Sherlock.”

There is no reply.

 

**

 

He stops narrating any kind of fantasy at Sherlock after that first awkward instance. _Wouldn’t want Sherlock thinking I just want him for his body_ , John muses, as he pecks out another mundane blog entry. 

It doesn’t mean he stops wishing Sherlock would come to life. 

Some mornings, John looks down at his plate with its single, sad piece of Marmite-laden toast, and he thinks of cozy breakfasts at the table together, of stealing bites of each other’s toast, and fighting over who gets the newspaper.

On lazy afternoons, he imagines leisurely jaunts through a park or museum, followed by meals at obscure but appetizing places. Or wherever their strolls end up, really.

Other nights, when London’s skies open up and John wanders outside in the rain to escape the monotony that his life’s become, he can’t help but think how much more _alive_ he would feel, if Sherlock were with him. _Really_ with him. 

The thoughts start spilling over into his dreams, and his dreams bleed slowly into reality, until John wakes up to see Sherlock in the flesh, sitting next to him in bed and tapping studiously away at a laptop. But each time, upon reaching out to reaffirm Sherlock’s existence, his fingers knock against cold marble, and something small and bitter and tight clenches around his heart. Because Sherlock is still a sculpture and John is still alone in his empty, postage-stamp sized piece of London. 

Alone, where thoughts and dreams become dangerous and the silence of his flat is deafening as it roars _lonely, lost, abandoned_.

Those days are the worst of all.

 

**

 

From his observations, John notices that Sherlock’s keen gaze seems to take in everything surrounding him. It’s a trait that would certainly be advantageous in a detective.

“You could be a consulting detective,” John jokes, once, the mystery novel he’s been reading propped open on his lap. “ _My_ consulting detective. The only one in the world.” John smiles, just a soft upturn of his mouth, like he and Sherlock are sharing a momentous secret.

 _And instead of blogging about how nothing happens to me, I could blog about your cases instead._ Our _cases_. _The world would know just how brilliant you are._ John doesn’t say this out loud, but he thinks Sherlock can guess, anyway. “We’d have grand adventures, barely escape with our lives, then do it all again the next week.” 

Sherlock’s pointed glare at the book seems to say _Dull_ , so with a knowing nod, John closes his book. He lives more vicariously through his imagination and daydreams about Sherlock than he ever could in books, anyway. 

John sneaks a quick glance at Sherlock again as he slips the book into his desk. The expression on the intricately carved marble remains the same as always: indifferently aloof, with no sign of furrowed brow from glaring. John decides that he’s seeing things again, but with all that he’s imagined already, what harm could there be in believing that a statue could express its emotions?

 

**

 

Between the stories and adventures he creates and narrates to Sherlock, John finds himself sharing other things with his statue. Just short term goals (he sure doesn’t have long-term ones), like finding a job to keep the monotony of life at bay.

“I’m not sure I can work as a surgeon anymore,” he laments aloud. “No hospital wants a surgeon with an intermittent hand tremor. Though I might start off with locum work and go from there.” John pauses. “Eventually I might even have enough to move into a real flat.”

Sherlock approves. At least, he seems to. It’s impossible to tell, so John just pretends Sherlock is nodding sagely at John’s life plan.

“And where do _you_ fit into all of this?” A nervous laugh escapes through John’s lips. “We’d be flatmates again, of course.” He glances at his hands, which he realizes he’s been rubbing at absently, as if he’s fidgeting. “Though we could be more than that, if you…you know.” John swallows the hard lump that threatens to interrupt his confession. “If you wanted to. Partners, in every sense of the word.” He laughs again, this time brokenly, the sound like fragile glass shards grinding in his throat. “Oh, Sherlock,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “How I wish we could.”

Sherlock stares at him, cool and unblinking. John sighs, and with a fond brush of his hand against Sherlock’s shoulder, says, “Good night.”

 

**

 

“I wish you’d put have that thing moved to a corner or something,” Harry says on her next visit to the bedsit. “It’s creeping me out.” 

John bristles at how she refers to Sherlock as ‘that thing’, but affects a half-shrug of compliance. 

The next time she visits, the statue still hasn’t been moved, because John is not ashamed of Sherlock. 

He never will be.

 

**

 

It’s been a long day at his new job, despite it being the locum work he’s been looking for. His patients—hypochondriac biddies with their inane questions, young children with their unrelenting screams— leave him exhausted. He stumbles into the tiny bedsit and flicks on the light, ready to collapse on the bed. 

Sherlock is there, contemplating John’s appearance carefully through his marble eyes, and deducing how his day has been.

“What’s that, Sherlock? Yes, the vomit stain on my right sleeve _is_ from a child that vomited from fright before I gave him the flu vaccine. But you’d know that the red smear just above it is from the cherry sweet I gave him after I successfully administered the vaccine. He licked it and threw it at me, and you can tell from the height of the stain that he was four years of age. Right on all counts, again.” There’s more, but all John wants to do is have a lie down and rest. 

_I’ll let you get your rest then,_ he imagines Sherlock saying coolly. _That’s what flatmates do, after all. To be nice._

John closes his eyes for a brief moment, before deciding to continue his conversation with Sherlock. “You know what _would_ be nice? Not just someone to share a flat with. More than that; someone to share my life with.” He rolls over on the bed, and looks wistfully at Sherlock. 

_I wish you were real,_ John thinks, his heart physically aching at the thought. _I’d come home and give you a kiss before we tumbled onto the sofa. We could cuddle for a while, and if we got hungry, I’d make your favourite dish, or you’d make mine, and if we were both tired, we could just order takeaway. Then we’d fight about what to watch on the telly, and if after all that, we never made it to the bed, we could just fall asleep there. And in the morning, we’d complain about our sore necks, before laughing it off and doing it all again._

“But you’re just a statue,” John sighs, with a hopeless half-smile. He’s only verbalized the last sentence of all his thoughts, but he’s sure Sherlock hears him all the same. 

He stands up, ready to remove his clothes and turn in for the night, when he notices a blemish on his statue’s otherwise unmarked, pale chest. He brushes the dust away with his fingers, trying to gently remove the speck over Sherlock’s chest, but there’s a rough patch or crevice he doesn’t see, because it nicks his finger, drawing blood.

John bites back a soft hiss at the pain, disappointed more at the fact that his blood is seeping into the crevice where he can’t get at it. That the tiny rivulet of crimson has marred the lovely ivory of his statue, just over the heart. John can’t help but think that Sherlock now has a matching wound on _his_ heart—as if it commiserates with the pain that John’s feels.

“You’re a feisty one, aren't you?” John grins, because Sherlock is everything John thinks he is: acerbic while being impossibly, untouchably beautiful. 

Against his better judgment, he reaches his uninjured hand to cradle Sherlock’s cheek in his palm. What he wouldn’t give for that cheek to be warm against his skin, to nuzzle up against his hand in gentle affection.

It suddenly occurs to John that he’s been pining after an inanimate object, and with a compulsion born of desperation and longing, he presses a gentle kiss to Sherlock’s cold, unfeeling lips. 

There is no sudden magical transformation. No warm, pliant lips move against his. 

As a flood of disappointment crashes down on John, coupled with exhaustion from the day, he collapses on the bed, a faint trail of tears still wet upon his face.

He doesn’t bother with his customary “Good night, Sherlock.” 

What would be the point?

 

**

 

It’s too early to wake up, and John struggles under the stifling heat of the duvet, its heavy warmth sitting on his chest not unlike a cat curled above its owner’s sleeping form. He speculates that the heat’s been turned on too high again, and as his duvet rustles insistently against him, he wonders if it gained sentience or an internal heat source during the night. John throws a quick, furtive look toward his statue in the near-darkness, only to realize that Sherlock is gone. 

Sherlock is _gone_. 

He scrambles up in bed, fumbling blindly for the pull-switch on his lamp, a heart-pounding panic rising in his throat, before something pitches forward with an undignified squawk, a tangle of gangly limbs and bedsheet and—

Bedsheets did not, as a general rule, squawk. Or have limbs. 

“John?”

They also didn’t _speak_. 

With a tentative breath, John looks toward the foot of the bed, only to find a pale, curious face framed by dark curls peering back at him. His fair-haired Adonis, who once stood solitary near the bed, is in actuality dark-haired, with a keenly assessing gaze, observing John’s reactions as if they are to be catalogued and filed away in the annals of Sherlock, and straddling him now that he’s fallen awkwardly against John. 

_The annals of…oh god, this must be_ Sherlock, John’s mind helpfully supplies. If nothing else, the appalling bedsheet he’s wearing is a dead giveaway. It’s nearly transparent, and conforms perfectly to the contours of Sherlock’s—

“John?” the voice tries again, hesitant. There’s a cautious tug at John’s jumper.

His heart’s in his throat, but John manages to clear it enough to form a coherent answer. “Yes. I. Erm. Hello.”

“Oh good, I thought you’d gone catatonic on me once you realized I wasn’t standing around on that squat, horrid pedestal anymore,” Sherlock responds, in a rush of relief. He glares at the embossed plaque on where he once stood, as if personally affronted.

John blinks in surprise. Sherlock _speaks_ , and much more coherently than him, but he carks out a hoarse “How?” at the form that’s still sitting complacently on top of him. 

“You are the one who woke me.” A grateful nod in John’s direction. “The only one in the gallery who really _saw_ me, John, where others shunned me. You spoke to me, not as a freak, or another art piece to be admired, but just… _me_.”

John feels a sharp pang in his heart that no one has ever bothered to see Sherlock as more than a decorative piece, or one that didn’t conform with the others at the gallery.

Sherlock’s voice drops to a hushed whisper. “You loved me,” he says, hesitating for the span of a breath, “even when I hurt you.” His slender hands twine gently around John’s, as he licks the injured finger in apology. As John ponders how soothing that feels, Sherlock points to his own chest, his eyes bright and earnest. “It was what led to _this_. This pulsing _here_ , last night, began because of _you_.”

He presses John’s hand between his chest and his own hand, trapping John’s fingers against the pulse thundering there. It’s the staccato rhythm of life, so real and present, and John fights the urge to pinch himself to check if this is just a dream, just a projection of his most desperate delusions into tangible, delectable reality.

“Sherlock?” He tries out the name. It feels nice, rolling off his tongue. “Sherlock.”

The sigh that follows sounds nearly put-upon. “Yes, John.”

“You should have a last name. Holmes, perhaps? After your creator, M. Holmes—”

Sherlock meets that suggestion with a scowl. “ _That’s_ your first thought upon seeing me? Mycroft is a prat of the highest—”

John presses a finger to Sherlock’s lips to silence him. “I may be the one who brought you to life, but _he_ brought you into being. We owe him that much, at least.” He’s starting to see that he’s going to have to do much rationalization with his Sherlock.

There’s grudging acceptance as Sherlock nods slowly. “Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson.” He lets out a small, satisfied huff. “I like the sound of that.” 

A frown still tugs at the corners of his mouth, but he perks up again as John runs his hand along Sherlock’s back. In a nimble manoeuvre John would have thought impossible for Sherlock’s lanky physique, Sherlock slips beneath the duvet, and presses against John’s front. He loops his arms under John’s shoulders and stares into his eyes. 

“What are you doing?” John asks, a little disconcerted at suddenly becoming the subject of Sherlock’s single-minded focus. Not that he’s complaining, _god_ no.

“Memorizing. Studying.” Sherlock pauses, before another frown mars his content expression. “…Cuddling?” he adds, as if searching John’s face for the correct answer. “Am I doing it incorrectly?” His face floods with guilt at the idea of doing something wrong, that maybe John doesn’t want this after all. John can’t help but feel for him. 

“Here,” he says, pulling Sherlock against him, until his head rests snugly against John’s chest. “Close your eyes.” He smiles against Sherlock’s hair, amused at his sweetly naïve nature, despite the initial filth John’s narrated at him. “How did you…how do you know that this is what I want?” 

Sherlock answers with a smile of his own, working an arm free to press his palm over John’s heart. “The things you don’t say, I hear loudest of all.”

It’s almost anti-climactic that his first meeting with Sherlock results in them sleeping instead of the wide-eyed, giddy fascination of the stay-up-all-night variety John thought he’d have. But he’s desperately tired, and there are so many things weighing on his mind now: if M. Holmes will attempt to reclaim his creation, now that Sherlock’s become a sentient being; how John’s measly pension and salary will support them both.

For now, he wraps a protective arm around Sherlock’s waist, as his newly awakened companion curls into his chest with a small, slumbering sigh.

“John?”

So much for sleeping.

“What is it?” He can see the faint outline of a mop of hair moving as Sherlock tilts his chin back, and John feels Sherlock’s warm tongue dart out for a cautious lick against his lips—just a brief, sweet touch—that withdraws just as quickly.

“Thank you.”

John can’t help beaming, as warmth suffuses his body, filling the empty void inside. He leans forward to touch his nose to Sherlock’s as he tugs him close. “Good night, Sherlock.”

A response comes in the form of warm fingers curling around John’s shoulders. “Good night, John.”

 

**

 

 _Consulting detective_ , Sherlock calls himself, when they move into a cozy flat in central London, and on warm, lazy nights, as they lie curled together on the sofa or when Sherlock feels particularly generous, John is allowed to call him ‘ _my_ consulting detective’. Despite his growing prowess at solving crimes, he still makes faulty deductions on occasion, due to his lack of life knowledge. 

And he still brings home the wrong shopping most of (all of) the time. 

Between John’s new job at curing mundane maladies, rewiring some of Sherlock’s incorrectly observed life skills, and helping with cases, this is life at 221 B Baker Street.

The mysterious M. Holmes has been around to the flat, and has decidedly _not_ wanted to reclaim Sherlock, though he’s left a few cryptic thank-you notes, stating how instrumental John has been in Sherlock’s ‘awakening’. John supposes this is one of the things he will get an explanation for, in time. 

If ever.

 

**

 

“Thank _goodness_ ,” Harry exclaims, bullying her way into their new flat as John answers the door. She’s brought a potted plant as a housewarming gift, and as she scans the area, she notes John’s puzzled expression. “The statue, John. You’ve finally gotten rid of that creepy thing.” 

“Oh. Right, yes.” John nods absently, and it’s at this moment that Sherlock strides into view, test tube in hand frothing with a noxious purple substance. 

“And you’ve traded it for a real flatmate! Good on you.” Harry claps him on the back, before narrowing her eyes at Sherlock. “What’s his name?” She is no doubt taking in the odd ensemble of impeccable white dress shirt, rumpled blue dressing gown, and industrial grade goggles that Sherlock’s sense of fashion (at home, anyway) is comprised of. John’s sure that Sherlock is simultaneously making his own silent assessment of Harry.

He allows a half-smile to creep across his face. “Sherlock Holmes.”

Harry gives him a look of growing horror. “Sherlock? Wasn’t that the statue’s name? No. That’s…impossible.”

“Well, impossible is my middle name,” John says, his grin growing wide enough to make his cheeks hurt.

Sherlock snaps from the background, “No, _Hamish_ is your middle name.” He frowns distastefully at the purple stain forming on his close-fitting shirt, as if contemplating dyeing the entire shirt to hide the discoloration. “I don’t understand why you’d want to claim otherwise.”

John turns back to Harry, who looks caught between laughter and irritation, and gives her a _See what I have to deal with?_ shrug. But when he feels Sherlock’s hand give his shoulder a quick, possessive squeeze, the smile on his face is unmistakably radiant. 

Especially when the worst he has to deal with are fights over toast and newspaper, exhilarating chases after criminals through parks and alleyways, and wandering through London downpours, hand in hand with Sherlock and the thrill of being _alive_. 

There are dark days ahead, but with Sherlock by his side, John can deal with _anything_.


End file.
